


Wishing Well

by tingodvons



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 13:03:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1186582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tingodvons/pseuds/tingodvons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When all attempts at love fail, try to speak their language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wishing Well

Newt thinks about the entire thing for a long time. Probably longer than necessary. 

It all starts one stupid Tuesday morning, because--

“--Tuesdays are the worst, y’know?” Newt says, stringing the piece of Kaiju intestine across his lab table, some dangling off the edge, dangerously close to the tape that splits their lab. From his own desk, Hermann fails to acknowledge Newt. 

Not that that’s gonna stop him. Never has.

“Everyone gripes about Mondays, which-- yeah, I hate them too-- but Tuesday are so...y’know?” Newt grabs a pair of surgical scissors from the edge of the table, accidentally knocking a few other things off. 

Hermann _tsks_ disapprovingly at the sound of the crash, and that’s all the confirmation Newt needs to continue. 

“Cause Mondays are the beginning of the week, but Tuesdays are like a kick in the shin. It’s like, ‘haha you’re still at the beginning of the week, sucks to suck, doesn’t it!’ At least Wednesday’s give you a glimmer of hope, right? Hump day, and all that shit.” Newt continues to ramble, switching on his headlamp and snipping the scissors in preparation. “Hey Hermann, are you even listening to me?” 

There’s a pause of silence between them, where Hermann is sitting, straight backed at his desk, and Newt is hunched over his lab table with a pair of scissors in his glove covered hands, ready to dive in and make more life saving discoveries. It isn’t the silence that makes Newt’s brain itch, it’s the air of Hermann and Newt just doesn’t _know_ if he even cares-- so Newt will ramble on until the hum in his brain is quelled enough. Newt doesn’t think Hermann is gonna respond, which is fine, and he gets ready to make the first incision and opens his mouth to start rambling again when--

“Are you even going to pick those up?” 

Newt peers over his glasses, then stands up straight, adjusting them from where they’ve slid down his nose. “Pick up what?” 

Hermann doesn’t even look at him, but Newt doesn’t need to see his face to know the other man is positively, absolutely _annoyed_ with him. “The supplies you just knocked over,” Hermann says. “You should pick them up and wash them. Sterilize them, especially-- do you _even_ sterilize your supplies?” 

“Hey!” Newt exclaims, completely offended and totally, unwillingly flattered that Hermann gave him a response. “I totally _do_ sterilize my stuff!” 

“Then pick the goddamn scalpels off the floor!” 

“I’ll do it later,” he says dismissively, and makes the first cut into the foreign organ in front of him. It immediately gives off the smell of decay and methanol and formaldehyde and things that make Newt’s nose burn and makes his brain hum happily. 

“What do you think it’s like to drift with someone for so many years? Like, how strong is that ghost drift, do you think?” Newt wonders allowed, his thoughts only nanoseconds ahead of his running mouth. “Like the Kardi--Kandi--Kaidov--the Russians, y’know? How does that even work.” Newt pries open the incision with his hands, smiling down at his dissection. “I mean--”

“ _Mein Gott,_ Newton,” Hermann interrupts loudly, and Newt looks up with a wry grin. Hermann spins in his chair to fully face him, and levels him with a glare. “Do you _ever_ shut up?” 

Newt shrugs. “Life’s too short to shut up.” 

“What can I do to get you to _be quiet_ for _five bloody minutes_.” 

“A kiss?” The words leave his mouth before he knows what he’s saying, this time his mouth is officially ahead of his brain-- even if he knows that’s biologically impossible, whatever, it’s the metaphor that counts. “Or a blowjob?” He tries not to focus on the realization that he really wants Hermann to do _both those things._

They maintain eye contact for another moment, before Hermann says, “You insufferable idiot,” with the most exasperated voice possible, and Newt is undeniably in love. 

Ah, fuck. 

“Well, I’m going to get lunch, and let you blabber on to your dead Kaiju _buddies_ ,” Hermann sneers the word, and stands up, grabbing his cane from where it’s hooked on the edge of his desk. Newt still can’t stop staring at him, and his eyes follow him as he walks out of the room. 

“Uh-- get me some chips! Or cookies! Or something!” Newt calls after him, realizing he should probably reply at some point while his mind races a mile a minute. 

“Get it yourself!” is Hermann’s final reply, before his faltered footsteps fade out. 

Newt collapses into his chair, the back squeaking in protest, and he ignores the piece of intestine in front of him in favor of trying to convince himself that he totally isn’t in love with Hermann. The idea is totally ridiculous-- why would he be in love with _Hermann_ , of all people, really. It’s not like he goes out of his way to annoy the man, not like he sometimes gets his meals for him when his leg is acting up, not like he gets irrationally worried when he doesn’t show up at his normal time of 9AM--

Newt groans, and pushes the entrail off his table, letting it roll off, caking the floor with slime and slobbering the line of tape. His brain is giddy when he thinks of how Hermann will react, the fire in his eyes and the fury in his voice and--

Shit. 

*****

“ _If you can keep your head when all about you / Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; / If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, / But make allowance for their doubting too: / If you can wait and not be tired of waiting--_ of, of waiting?” 

Newt stops pacing his room and makes a beeline for his desk, which is covered in skewed papers and files, and picks up the notepad on top of one of the stacks. He flips through it until he finds the page that has _If: Rudyard Kipling_ and the poem scrawled under it in Newt’s messy handwriting. He runs his index finger down the chicken scratch lines until--

“By waiting, _by waiting,_ by waiting by waiting,” Newt repeats to himself, then throws the notepad back on the desk, not bothering to pick it up as it slips off the papers and onto the floor, and starts reciting again. 

This time, he gets halfway through the poem before his tongue stumbles and he says, “Toss-and-pitch-- wait, _fuck_ ,” he breaks in the middle of it, and says, “Pitch-and-toss, it’s _pitch-and-toss_ you idiot!” 

He kicks the notepad on the floor across the room out of frustration, then sits on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands. 

The whole idea is stupid, really. After he’d come to realize that his affection towards Hermann was more than a little crush, he’d immediately began planning on how he was going to let the man know. Countless days of not so subtle flirting later (leaning over desks and getting in his personal space and not wearing boxers under his jeans in the lab-- which, _okay_ , wasn’t his best idea, especially when he’d gotten a boner in the middle of Hermann’s stupid math talk) Newt decided he needed a very, _very_ obvious approach. 

Total sap he was, he’d turned to poetry. 

He’d thought about writing some, at first. The first few pages of the notepad that lay on the floor near the door was filled with failed attempts, which wasn’t that surprising, considering Newt could never get passed the “Roses are red / Violets are blue / Let’s fuck in the lab / I really like you” style. 

Then, he tried researching poems, which made an interesting experience when Herc Hansen had walked into the lab and seen Newt reading Emily Dickinson on the holographic screen. He’d also considered reciting Shakespeare-- 18th Sonnet, all that, but Newt really couldn’t get down all those “art”s and “thou”s and “thee”s so he’d given up on that idea in record time.

How he stumbled onto the Kipling poem he didn’t know-- he just knew that it fit for Hermann in general. Newt wasn’t too big on the whole _metaphor_ and _meanings_ this, English had never been his strong suit-- he’s a scientist, for crying out loud, of course English isn’t his strong suit. He’s used to memorizing anatomy of domineering aliens, he’s used to naming the bones in their body, he’s used to memorizing diagrams and procedures and hands on things, not fucking-- 

Newt sighs, and resigned, stands up and walks across the room and picks up the notepad. 

He’s definitely not used to memorizing _this_. 

“From the top, Newt,” he says to himself, starting to pace around his room again. 

*****

The day Newt finally decides to recite the poem to Hermann is tense. Everything about it is tense: the atmosphere in the lab, the flow through Newt’s mind, his shoulders, everything around him feels cramped and uninviting. 

Hermann, though, doesn’t seem to notice. Or, if he does, he doesn’t say anything. 

Newt’s been trying to work up the courage to get Hermann’s attention to start reciting since he opened his eyes that morning. He’d thought about doing it at breakfast, in front of the crowd of engineers and pilots and guards, but the second he’d seen Hermann walk into the mess hall, Newt had hightailed it out of there. 

Hermann had walked into the lab half an hour later, hair slightly tousled and his eyes sleepy in a way that Newt usually didn’t get to see (and would even dare label it _cute_ ), and he had muttered, “Good morning, Newt,” and it had sent Newt’s heart beating and his mind in such a flurry he couldn’t even remember the name of the author of the poem. Kipper? Kipland? Kaplind? Whatever.

So there they were, 4:19pm, with Hermann scrawling away on his blackboard and Newt staring at him, chewing through his bottom lip and pretending he’s getting actual work done. Which he totally isn’t. He’s reciting the poem over and over in his head, mouthing the words along with it and hoping he doesn’t fuck this up, hoping he doesn’t--

“Newton? Are you trying to say something?” 

Newt snaps his mouth shut, suddenly realizing he had been mouthing the words _pitch-and-toss_ over and over again. Hermann’s giving him a strange look, a mixture of confusion and amusement that makes Newt’s stomach flutter. 

The silence spans between them, and Hermann asks again, “Well? Are you?”

“Uh--y-yeah!” Newt stands up hastily from his desk, and begins walking around it on shaky legs. “Yeah, actually, I have uh-- something you should hear, yeah.” 

Hermann looks slightly taken aback, but leans forward on his cane and cocks an eyebrow. “Go on, then.” 

Newt stands a few feet away from the other man, his heart hammering in his chest, then licks his lips and clears his throat. It’s now or never, Newt, it’s now or--

“ _If you can keep your head when all about you / Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; / If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, / But make allowance for their doubting too--”_

Newt falters for a moment, too caught up in the confused look that Hermann’s giving him, but his brain is on autopilot so the words continue out of his mouth.

“ _\--If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, / Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies / Or being hated don’t give way to hating, / And yet don’t look too god, nor talk too wife; / If you can dream--and not make dreams your master; / If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim, / If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster--_ ”

“--Newton,” Hermann interrupts. “What are you--”

“Dude, hold on,” Newt breaks him off. “I got this whole thing memorized, I’ve got this.” He clears his throat again, ignoring the look that Hermann’s giving him that he can’t quite decipher, then continues. “ _And treat those two impostors just the same: / If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken / Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, / Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, / And stoop and build’em with worn-out tools; / If you can make one heap of all your winnings / And risk it on one turn of toss-and-pitch--_ wait, _fuck_ , I mean-- _pitch-and-toss.”_

Hermann lets out a huff of laughter, and Newt takes it as a good sign, and he starts grinning and barrels on. “ _And lose, and start again at your beginnings, / And never breathe a word about your loss: / If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew / To serve your turn long after they are gone, / And so hold on when there is nothing in you / Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!” / If you can talk with crowds and--”_

“Newton-- Newt,” Hermann cuts him off again, and Newt’s voice dies in his throat. “Newt, I--,” his expression looks pained. “Just...just stop, please.” 

“I told you, I have the whole thing memorized, although you did just mess me up, you’ll have to give me a second to get back on the right track. Uh, right-- _If you can talk with--_ ”

“No, Newt! Stop it, stop it this instant!” Hermann raises his voice, and the air goes tense around them again, the feeling roping around Newt’s heart and pulling it tight. Much quieter, Hermann asks, “What is this? Where is this coming from?” 

Newt’s throat goes thick, and his voice catches slightly as he says, “I-It’s a poem. Cause I kind of--”

Hermann sighs, and Newt feels like his brain is going to implode on him. “Poetry is all...” he waves a hand through the air dismissively, “smoke and mirrors. It means nothing. Whatever you’re trying to convey, Newt, I can’t believe it.” 

Newt swallows, trying to keep his composure while his brain runs a mile a minute, synapses overloading and neurotransmitters firing rapidly, it’s like he can feel every single signal going through the wires of his overloaed brain. “Right,” he finally says, taking a step back. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to waste your time.” 

“No, wait, _Newt_ ,” Hermann takes a step forward, but Newt starts walking towards the lab door. “You _know_ that’s not what I--”

“No,” his voice breaks slightly. “No, I get it.” The silence between them is thick and stuffy, and Newt says, “I’m gonna. Go get some lunch. Late lunch. Yeah.” 

When he walks out of the lab, he isn’t sure whether he wants Hermann to follow him or not. 

****

He gets over it all quick enough. Y’know, the whole confessing-your-love-to-your-co-worker-and-getting-blatantly-rejected thing? Yeah, he doesn’t really hold grudges. It’s embarrassing, sure, but only till Newt gets over himself. No reason to be embarrassed about it.

Hermann, though, seems to be unable to let it go. 

Anyone who hadn’t been working with the man for years and years wouldn’t be able to see the differences-- they’re so subtle it’s painful, cause Newt can’t call him out on it. He can’t say, “Hey, you ignore me differently,” or, “Hey, you won’t make eye contact with me as often,” or, “When I tell jokes now you don’t _tsk_ as loudly, don’t roll your eyes at me as much, don’t sigh as loudly to show you enjoyed it.” 

So Newt goes along with it, goes with the flow, because that’s what he does. 

A month and a half later, something catches Newt’s attention. 

He’s staring at Hermann as the man works-- still completely infatuated, okay, whatever-- when words echo in his mind suddenly. 

_Whatever you’re trying to convey, Newt, I can’t believe it._

The lightbulb goes off in his brain, the dam breaks, and the words come flooding from his mouth. 

“Hermann, why don’t you like poetry?” 

The sounds of chalk on blackboard stop abruptly, and Newt sits up straighter as Hermann turns to look at him, the chalk clutched in paled fingers. Newt fights the urge to smile, because it’s the first time they’ve made full blown eye contact in _days_. It’s like a breath of fresh air. 

“I’m sorry?”

“Poetry.” Newt repeats. “Why don’t you like it?” 

Hermann sighs, slouching slightly against his cane. “Newton, listen, I--”

“No--no, I’m not, like, angry or anything. I’m just kind of-- curious.” Newt shuffles his feet beneath his desk. 

Hermann licks his lips, then says quietly, “It’ just-- doesn’t _say_ anything. Hiding feelings behind nicely timed and rhymed words...” He sighs again, and looks down. “What does it all mean?”

Right. That’s what Newt thought. 

“Additionally, how am I supposed to believe anyone who uses the smoke and mirrors of words.”

That’s _not_ what Newt thought. Okay, maybe he wasn’t so spot on with his predictions. 

“Wait, are you saying you don’t _believe_ me?” Newt says, his voice raising slightly in disbelief. “Dude, I memorized _poetry_ \-- I’m not a huge fan of the stuff either!” 

Hermann turns back to his blackboard, immediately beginning to scribble away on it. Newt slumps in his chair, spinning around so his back is to the other scientist. 

If Hermann didn’t believe him, Newt would make him believe.

*****

This time, Newt spends a whole week working on his plan, not just some cheap knock off memorization of a poem that he barely gets down (seriously, who the fuck writes the words _pitch-and-toss_ ). He actually spends his free time doing math (and, admittedly, googling math), writing and rewriting equations until he finally, _finally_ gets it.

Still, this time around, he’s not so quick to give it to Hermann. 

The thing in his mind now, mainly, is doubt. It’s the kind of doubt that keeps gnawing at his brain, leaving him awake at night and unfocused in the lab. Makes him drum his fingers against any available surface, writing and rewriting the equation on any available surface, wondering if Hermann just doesn’t like poetry or just doesn’t like _him_. Wondering if maybe Newt’s gotten it wrong all these years, maybe all the glares and eye rolls and arguing is just what it seems on the surface: hate. The thought makes his stomach churn.

He let’s it fester and stink in his mind, until the opportune moment comes two months after he’s worked the whole thing out. 

It’s late, late enough that Newt refuses to check the clock because he knows he’ll feel bad about it, and it’s late enough that Hermann _does_ check the clock and feels bad about it. Newt watches from where he’s penciling diagrams of the dissection he’s just made as Hermann curses under his breath, puts down the pencil he’s been breaking and sharpening and writing with furiously for the past few hours, and then curl his hands in and out of fists as he yawns. 

“What, too late for you, old man?” Newt immediately teases. The past few months put them at their normal ease, put things back to them bickering about how unruly Newt’s desk is, put them back to snapping at each other’s throats, put them back to Hermann sometimes tripping Newt with his cane, while aliens emerge from beneath the pacific and they build looming robots to fend them off. So, yeah. Normal. 

Hermann scowls at him, and says, “Of course not,” with such a weak bite that he doesn’t even try to back it up with anything. 

“Didn’t you take your dinner at, like, 4:30 today?” 

“Oh, do shut it.”

But he glances at the digital projection clock that blares _032_ at them, and then adds, “However, it is quite late, I think I’ll be retiring for the night.” 

Newt laughs quietly, looking back down at his budding diagrams and starting to sketch again. “Whatever, dude.” 

“You should, probably, consider sleeping too, Newton.” 

It’s the genuineness in his voice that throws Newt off. 

“Not now, dude,” is his automatic response, and he follows up with, “I’m too busy making life-saving discoveries.” But Hermann’s yawn from earlier travels to him, and his body mutely screams _hypocrite_ as his jaw opens wide and he lets out a loud, deep yawn.

It’s enough to get a tired chuckle from the other man. “Right, of course.” Newt fights the urge to look up, because he knows Hermann is smiling right now, he can hear it in his fucking voice, and he knows if he sees it that he’ll be thinking about it for _hours_. He’s got it so bad, he’s in this thing so fucking deep. 

But then he hears something unusual, a sound he doesn’t hear so often that it’s so foreign to him, Newt has to look up to see what’s causing it. 

It’s Hermann. Erasing his chalkboard.

Newt’s mouth snaps shut, and the gears in his mind start turning, all the while Hermann unsuspectingly continues to balance on his toes (and use his cane) to reach up and wipe the blackboard clean. 

“Dude,” Newt finally says when Hermann finally finishes, “I don’t think I’ve seen you clean that thing in a _year_. Maybe two.” 

Hermann scoffs. “Yes, well, I finished the equation for calculating breach movements that I have been working on for a year, _maybe two_.” Newt can’t help but grin as his words are thrown back at him. They go silent again as Hermann organizes his desk slightly (not that it needs much organizing, compared to Newt’s), and then he says, “I’m heading out for the night, Newton.”

“Alright.”

“Do try not to stay up till the ungodly hours of the morning, as you are so fond of doing.”

Newt laughs. “Whatever, man.” 

Hermann grumbles something under his breath. “Yes, well, goodnight then.”

“Night.” 

It’s a struggle for Newt to keep his nonchalance until Hermann fully leaves the lab, turning off half the lights as he usually does. But the second he’s gone, Newt jumps from his seat and crosses the line that divides their lab, then stands in front of the blank blackboard. 

The piece of chalk is in his hand before he realizes, and he goes to climb the ladder when he feels a pang in his chest. This is what Hermann does on a daily basis. Newt’s fully embracing Hermann for this. 

God, he really does love the guy. 

Newt cautiously climbs about half way up the ladder, grips the chalk, and begins to write. He’s got the whole thing memorized, careful to make the symbols even and his handwriting legible for once. So finally, a whole fifteen minutes later, he has it written nearly across the middle of Hermann’s thinking space. 

_1/(i+1) * (k=1...i)∑k^3 < (k = 1...∞)∑u^2*(5/9)^k_

Not that he has any idea what it means. 

Of course, he _knows_ what it means, he knows what the outcome will be-- or, should be. So that’s where he leaves it, carelessly dropping the chalk to the ground and starting the climb back down the ladder. 

That, ultimately, proves to be his downfall. Quite literally.

He’s about five rungs from the bottom, when he makes the mistake of looking behind him over his shoulder. The height isn’t staggering, doesn’t make his stomach queazy like heights somethings do, but his grip is loose enough on the ladder that suddenly he finds himself in a face first, very intimate position with the lab floor.

Which, by the way, should really be cleaned. 

Newt props himself up, sputtering chalk out of his mouth and a throbbing feeling in his nose. There’s also something dribbling down and something wet on his lips and-- yep, that’s blood, that’s definitely blood. Probably means his nose is broken. Whatever, that’s cool. He stands up and takes a few steps back to admire his handiwork. 

So, with a broken nose, blood on his sleeves and quickly making it’s way back to his lips, chalk on his tongue, Newt proudly heads to medical. 

*****

They keep him overnight in medical in case of skull fractures, but around 9 in the morning just decide that Newt’s just an idiot and broke his nose, so they let him go with a bandaged nose, some pain meds, and a slap on the wrist. 

He’s tired, but his brain is still buzzing anxiously, so he heads back to the lab, expecting to have a few minutes of peace and quiet until Hermann gets there, and then Newt will come up with an excuse to leave the lab for a few hours. 

He’s not expecting Hermann to already be there, standing on his ladder, chalk in hand and  written lines under the equation that is in very different handwriting. 

Hermann hears his footsteps, and looks over his shoulder to say, “Good morning, Newton,” quickly followed by, “By _God_ , what did you do?”

Newt shrugs, going to sit at his desk, and says, “Be careful with that thing. The ladder. Really throws ya’ off sometimes.” 

There’s a flash of recognition in Hermann’s eyes, and he mutters, “Right,” before going back to working out the equation. 

Newt gives himself busy work so that he won’t stare at Hermann. He rewrites facts to put in future reports on Kaiju, he redraws diagrams he already knows he has memorized to the bone (and probably on his skin), and even rewrites the same equation neatly made out on the blackboard across the lab from him. 

Then, the sound of furious writing stops, there’s a second of pause, then a soft, “ _Oh_.” It takes all Newt’s willpower not to look up.

He looks up anyway. 

Hermann’s staring at the last line he had written, a small, simple answer compared to the equation that had been written above, and in his usual, messy scrawl he uses when drafting anything, is written _i < 3u_ at the bottom of the board. 

Newt’s heart hammers in his chest, and he immediately looks back down, but he also feels a swell of pride cause, _fuck yeah_ , he’d gotten the equation right.

Newt starts his busywork again, desperate to keep his hands busy as his mind races around it’s usual track, and he gets so caught up in it that he doesn’t hear Hermann’s footsteps across the lab, doesn’t even notice the man’s presence until the paper slides onto his desk and over his own work. 

He looks up, and swallows when he sees Hermann staring down at him with an undistinguishable expression. “Yeah?” His voice is hoarse. 

“You got it wrong.” 

The words are firm, and Newt’s mind slams on the breaks cause, what the fuck, he’d thought he’d gotten it _right,_ he’d seen Hermann write the correct answer, for Christ’s sakes. 

“I’m sorry?”

“The equation. It’s incorrect.” Hermann taps the paper with two fingers. “I redid it for you.” 

Newt looks back down at the paper, and blinks several times at it. 

“Dude, I have no idea what any of this means.” 

“Just look at the answer at the bottom, you dolt.” 

He scans down the paper, eyes skimming through nonsense numbers and symbols that he doesn’t know the names of, until he reaches the bottom. Then his heart stops in his chest. 

_i < 3u^2_

Newt breaks out into a bashful grin, and looks back up at Hermann. “You sap,” he says. “You absolute, secret _sap_.” 

The other man immediately turns red, starting from the base of his neck and up to his ears and, _god_ , it’s so fucking cute, Newt’s gonna _implode._ “Hypocrite,” he says immediately. 

“Really? I mean, did you _really_ rewrite this entire equation _just_ to square it?” Newt stands up, leaning over his desk slightly. “You could’ve just thrown it in there somewhere to make that answer, I wouldn’t have notice, but _no_. I _know_ you changed this entire thing _just_ to square it.” 

“Newton...” Hermann groans. 

“I’m gonna frame this, I’m so gonna--” 

Newt’s effectively cut off by Hermann grabbing his tie, yanking him forward and crashing their lips together, Newt’s hands slamming on his desk to steady himself, the sound so loud it echoes. The kiss is tongue and teeth, words they never want to say to each other conveyed through a swipe of the tongue, a nip at the lips. 

They pull back eventually, Hermann letting go of Newt’s tie and standing up straight and Newt grinning widely, hands still on the desk. Hermann catches Newt’s gaze, and breaks into a small, yet blinding smile. It makes Newt’s heart hurt. 

“God, you’re such a sap,” Newt repeats before he realizes it. “You’re like one of those candies that are hard on the outside, but soft and gooey on the inside.”

“Oh my _god_ , Newton.”

“You’re like a tootsie pop!” 

“Shut _up_.” 

Newt tries to fight against his smile when he waggles an eyebrow and says, “How many licks do you think it’ll take to get to the center of you.”

And he can only laugh and pull Hermann into another kiss when the man says, “Is that a challenge?” 

**Author's Note:**

> written for my lovely friend Bones for her birthday! Love you dearest, I hope your birthday is as awesome as you are!


End file.
